


The Master and His Apprentice

by Ethan_SN



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (vague) mentions of abuse, Death and War, Dom/sub, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Force Choking (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Reader, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Master/Servant, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seduction to the Dark Side, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, The Dark Side of the Force, This was gonna be a smutty oneshot but who knows how long it'll be, You have a name in story but it's easily ignored, bratty sub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethan_SN/pseuds/Ethan_SN
Summary: You're Enevre Hthena, a Senior Officer on your home planet, ready to defend your people against the First Order. When Kylo Ren thwarts all your best attempts, and most of your fighters have died or surrendered, though, your last chance of saving your people is surrender. He ruthlessly kills your leaders and steals you and your mother's supplies away. Your only hope of survival is to train with Kylo Ren to become a Dark side user, just like your mother before you... But can you handle it? Will he kill you if you can't... Or does he care for you just as you care for him?
Relationships: Ben Solo & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. What Now?

It is absolute chaos around you, nothing but screaming and crying, running, the sound of missiles hitting the earth around you, your planet’s own blasters shooting back. The civilians that had come to the military base were now panicking behind you, and many of your fellow soldiers had abandoned their posts. Some of the higher ups are looking for them, threatening reprimandation for anyone who allowed more to flee, but you can’t bring yourself to try and stop your fellow officers from fleeing. Instead, you focus your canon on one TIE fighter at a time, deployed from the large ship slowly approaching. You know you were probably going to die here, but it isn’t processing in your head. You know with each explosion you kill another human being, but that isn’t processing, either. You are strangely calm, a sense of duty and determination washed over you. No matter how many TIE fighters you take out, more seem to arrive, though they’re all as easy to shoot down as the last. The large ship is growing ever nearer, though, and countless bucketheads will march toward the remaining military and wipe you all out. Maybe they’ll kill the civilians, but they were probably here to colonize rather than destroy. It’s frightening to you how calmly you thought this- that sense of determination falters for a moment, and you miss the approaching craft- one notably different in appearance. You were the best shot on this planet, but everyone failed sometimes- usually, though, in your practice, your allies covered you, making sure no threat went unprevented. Maybe it was the small number of shooters left. Maybe it bad luck, or at least that pilot’s  _ good _ luck.

Or maybe, the pilot had succeeded in that determination where you had failed.

The strange craft lands, and you aim your cannon at it again, but when you fire, it only sputters and pops. You fall back just in time to avoid the explosion.  _ “Fuck,” _ you hiss, then stumbledto a the only abandoned cannon close enough. You aim it at the craft, but the pilot has stupidly climbed out of his ride. You fire- only to get another malfunction. You barely avoid the explosion this time, and with a hissed curse, you stumble for cover behind the open metal door, pulling out your blaster. You glance out at him, just a black figure against the ice and snow. Everything seems to miss him, and no one else dares aim their cannon at him. You wait until he’s close enough, then shoot; he flicks his wrist and the blast freezes mid air and crackles out of existence.  _ A Jedi? No- A Sith. That’s what the bad guys are called _ . You stare at him from your cover, a looming dark figure in a cape, a mask. From this distance, he looks almost exactly like Darth Vader, though silver metal gleams proudly on his helmet.

You curse before crouching and speeding to another abandoned cannon, narrowly missing shots. You duck behind one and supercharge it, readying it for distance. Unfortunately, your commanding officer is nearby, the very man who had told you all  _ not _ to risk that.

“Officer Hthena!” he shouts at you. “Just what are you doing?”

“All due respect, sir,” he scream back. “I’m doing whatever I can!”

He snarls, knowing there’s not enough time to waste reprimanding you now. “If we make it out of here alive, you’re demoted!”

“I’ll just be grateful for my life, then,” you mutter, though he’s already chasing after another deserter. Your tiny planet isn’t capable of holding the First Order away forever, though, even if you manage to stave off this attack. You don’t know what will happen even if your people survive.

Your cannon is ready and you hone in on the giant ship leading the siege. You force yourself to calm down, gently coaxing that determination back into your favor. You mutter to the back of yourself that maybe, your childhood obsession would have been better wasted on studying war ships rather than Jedi, but it’s too late for that now. All you can do now is focus, aim, and fire. And you do, steadying yourself against the mighty recoil to watch the magnificent blast barrel towards the main ship. Beside the scope, you can see the dark figure stop in the distance, but you ignore him as easily as he dodges the blasts occasionally thrown his way, not even bothering to harm anyone who tries. He turns around, his body language almost- intrigued. Just as the blast grows ever closer to the ship, though, it suddenly explodes before any damage can be done in a stunning sight. The beauty of the blue flame burns away the determination and any sense of hope you have left, leading you cold and full of dread.

There’s no use fighting, at least not right now. The best you can do is cut your losses and try again later- and save as many lives in the meantime that you can. “Stop shooting!” you reluctantly scream to your colleagues, the people you’ve been training with since the First Order first started colonizing planets. “Maybe they’ll do the same.”

Most of the remaining shooters do so. Your commanding officers snarls at them, but they’re too loyal to you to listen. Slowly, the others stop, too. You stumble to the command center as the other fighters dodge for cover, even (quite sourly) your superior. He can’t fight a battle all by himself, after all. You shoot the white flag out of the top of the base in a show of surrender. The TIE fighters stop shooting and return the approaching ship. When you look, that man has paused, and there he stays until the ship stops above him. Smaller ships, all very imposing, land beside him. Legions of stormtroopers march out behind him as they continue.

“Drop your guns,” you order, your voice cracking. “It’ll save us all time.”

“That’s it then?” asks another girl as the rest follow.

“For now. Look for an opening- a real one, one that isn’t suicide.”

“Then it really is over,” says the only remaining prince, Okli. You stare at nearly a dozen faces, all intimately familiar to you. Everyone else is either dead or deserted. Your general is dead. His immediate men are dead. The other bases stopped fighting a long time ago. A military of thousands, reduced to eleven in the span of a few hours. You glance at the locked door leading to the civilians, wondering how they’ll react.

You put your hands up and walk out from your cover, and guns are trained on you. Your fellow soldiers follow suit, ending with your commanding officer. The man in black is in front of you all now, a stormtrooper in silver standing beside and behind him, seperate from the usual white bucketheads. “Frisk them,” the man instructed in a mechanical voice, deep and serious. Eleven stormtroopers- one for each of them- deployed and checked them all. You raise your head in defiance, glaring daggers at the dark man.  _ That’s it, Enevre _ , you tell yourself sardonically.  _ You’re not a coward if you look angry while you quit _ .

As if he can hear you, he glances at you menacingly. Or, at least, you  _ perceive _ it menacingly- his helmet, of course, offers no hints for his emotions, and his body language is cold and impersonal. “Who is in charge here?”

The soldiers glance between you and the commanding officer nervously. He raised his chin, jaw clenching. “Legally, or in praxis?” The two men study each other.

“I am,” you say. “Though he’s the commanding officer.”

The helmet swivels back to you. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you say, annoyed at his rhetorical question. You just want this to be over with. You realize you have no idea what’s coming, but waiting for it will do you no good. He glanced down, thinking.

“Spare the girl, kill the rest.”

The shots are being fired before you can process this, and gasp, blasts being fired past your line of vision at the rest of your remaining company. They fall to the ground, barely able of speech. You stare at them as the blasts cease, lifeless beside you. It’s even more surreal than it is terrifying, and you feel a tear fall, then another. You’re too stunned to weep, but it cracks through your focused mindset just enough to elicit tears, silent and gentle.

“Open the door to the civilians,” he demands. You glance up at him. It takes a long moment for his words to register.

“Are you going to kill them?” You ask. You know you’ll do it anyway- for a plethora of reasons. There’s no way out unless you do, and they  _ will _ get in somehow; it would be best if the civilians can also run. They might make it. Even if they didn’t get in, there’s only so much food, so much water. A blaster is much less painful than dehydration.

“No,” he said. For some reason, though you have no reason to, you believe him. You’re certain you’re going to die here as soon as you do. You glance over at the command center. You don’t know the codes to do it- only the General did- but it doesn’t matter, and maybe the man knows it. You struggle to let the determination wash over you, but when it does, you force the machine to comply. Slowly, the metal doors are dragged open, revealing the tunnel to where the civilians had evacuated to. “Onward,” said the man.

“No,” you say quickly, pleadingly. After a moment, he raises his hand and the stormtroopers cease. He’s humoring you, amused. “There’ll be panic if you all storm in there- I’m sure many of your men will die, too. Let me go in. Let me tell them to be calm, to surrender. That you won’t hurt them.”

He thinks about it for a long moment, then casually lowers his hand and almost shrugs nonchalantly. “Fine. Let’s go.” You turn and lead him into the tunnel, his presence imposing and suffocating. You can hear nothing but silence as they wait, holding their breath, knowing the doors have opened yet hearing no joy from the soldiers. Dread settles over the room, the entire remaining population of their small, beautiful planet.

“No,” says Her Majesty the Queen, all but collapsing onto her chair. She’s old and frail, and the news all but does her in. “My son?” You glance down, another tear falling. It’s answer enough. “And Okli?” You close your eyes.

“It’s just me, and all of you,” you say. “But they won’t hurt you. We need to go.”

Murmuring. They didn’t want to listen.

“We have no other choice,” you say, looking pleadingly at the Queen, who is staring despondent at the ground. “We cannot fight, we’ll all die and then they’ll take our planet, anyway.”

“But it’ll be over our dead bodies!” screamed your neighbor. Thunderous applause.

Just as you glance at his aging face, it changes from valour to pain. He clutches at his throat as if he’s being strangled. Everyone silencing, either staring at him or the dark man behind you. Desperately, you swivel. “Please,” you beg. You can still hear his laughter as if you’re drawing another mural on his driveway, or caring to his garden in exchange for a handful of coins and some sweets. “Please,” you whimper, feeling yourself cry harder. Once you start that, it’s like a floodgate, and you really  _ are  _ a little girl again, terrified and weak and helpless, afraid and sad. The dark man glances at you as your neighbor still chortles. You fall at the stranger’s feet, still crying and pleading. After a moment, his arm drops, and your neighbor gasps for air. He’s looking down at you, a pathetic, snivelling mess. Your forehead is touching his knee, your knees touching his boots.

“You will all follow,” boomed the man. “Or you will all die.” He spins and stalks away, knocking you back slightly and slapping you with his cape. You stumble to your feet and follow, leading your people forth. You still can’t stop crying, feeling nothing but pain, grief, terror, and dread.

And  _ shame _ . You’re all led out to stand on the snow while more stormtroopers ransack the city like sheep waiting to be led back to their pasture after a slaughter of their companions. “What is your name, colonizer?” You demand to the dark man’s back.

He straightens, then turns to you, standing tall and proud. “Supreme Leader Kylo Ren,” he says.  _ Supreme Leader _ . You’d spit on his mask in disgust if you didn’t know your death would horrify the already traumatized civilians. He seems to know this, leaning forward a bit before sauntering a few steps closer. He’s so much taller, the top of your head barely reaching the chin of his mask. You’re forced to turn your head nearly straight up to look at him. You’re  _ average height _ \- you’d never met someone so tall. “What’s your name?”

“Senior Officer Enevre Hthena,” you say proudly.

“Well,  _ Senior Officer _ ,” he says mockingly. “Your military has been wiped out. Your government is now officially demolished. You’re not any sort of officer, not anymore.” He glances over at the silver buckethead, motioning towards Her Majesty. “Speaking of, kill the Queen.”

“No!” You cry, but it seems as if he’s done letting you beg. After a calm  _ yes, sir _ the woman shoots the Queen. The people gasp and cry and stir, but no one dares start a mutiny. You’re beyond furious for a long moment, and before you can stop yourself, you’re sending him backwards in the snow. You’ve never done anything like that before- you’re not even sure how you know that it’s you. He stops himself effortlessly, then stalks towards you, looming over you again.

“The Force has been the only thing keeping you alive, little girl, but I suggest you control yourself,” he warns.  _ The Force? _ You’re not sure you believe him… But then again, what else could that be? He looks out at the small sea of your people- more a creek than an ocean, now- disinterested in you. “They’re all civilians. Hold them all here, they can be integrated into the Order,”

“Yes, sir,” says the woman once more.

Kylo Ren looks down at you. “Take me to your ship.”

“Why?” you demand, thrown off by his strange request. Your neighbor begins to choke again, and with a snarl, you march off towards the shelter where you’d parked your personal ship. “That was entirely unnecessary,” you snap.

“The other one,” he says as he catches sight of your small starship. “The one you made yourself, with the remnants of your family’s ships.”

You tense, not bothering to ask how in the  _ stars _ he knows that. “It’s parked outside my dwelling,” you inform him. “We might as well take the starship, it’s quicker than walking.” You easily hop aboard, sitting in the driver’s spot. He climbs into the seat beside you, looking awfully strange in your pastel pink ship. You weren’t entirely big on the color yourself, but you liked the thought of the fastest ship on your entire planet- in your entire system, for that matter- being some small, pink, girly thing you’d never expect. You start the engine and zoom away, neither of you bothering to buckle.

It’s not a long ride; you live close to your base, and any matter, your planet is one of the smallest in the galaxy. Your strange Frankenstein of a ship is waiting, a big hunk of it missing so as to enable you access to the insides. It was true it had  _ once _ consisted of spare parts from your mother’s, father’s, and uncle’s ships, but by now everything had been replaced so often it was hard to know how much remained of any of them. You probably have ought to build a nicer looking ship with everything you wasted on this, but it runs good and it had sentimental value by now. The igloo atop your underground house has been toppled, and judging by the deserted feel of the entire block, the stormtroopers have ransacked everything by now.

“No,” you gasp, remembering the books you held so dear. Without a glance at the man boarding your ship, you hurry down the rickety metal staircase and through the trashed living room, stopping in your bedroom. Your books are scattered round the floor along with everything else you own, but most of it looks unharmed. You gather the five Jedi books, the two photo albums, and the book-shaped safe, then struggle to carry them upstairs.

He’s waiting for you, the cage containing all the lightsabers you’d collected over your travelling years in his hand. You let your belongings topple into the backseat, then stare at him with anger, determination, resolve. “I’ll die before I let you have my mother’s lightsaber,” you say. You’re reluctant to part with the rest, but you won’t die for them. He sets the cage in the backseat.

“We will see,” he says. “For now, we’re heading back.”

It’s all a blur after you arrive back. Kylo Ren marches you onto the larger ship, leading you to what appeared to be his own private chamber. He set the cage on a chaise lounge, motioning for you to do the same with your books. “Sit,” he says, pointing to a chair, and you do. He easily breaks through the lock of your cage, fishing out your mother’s. “If you leave, I’ll destroy it. Understand?”

You scowl and look down. “Yes.”

He ignites it. You haven’t seen the red light in years, and it’s enthralling, to say the least. He swings it gently, getting a feel for it, and you watch. “Your mother was a Sith,” he says.

“No,” you say. “She killed a Sith.”

He glances at you. “She stole his lightsaber?”

“Yeah,” you say, and point to another in the cage. “But hers was red, too,”

“She was a Dark side user,”

“Yes.”

He glances at you, then swivels and stalks away, leaving you sat there, alone. One question prevailed over the grief and sorrow from the conquest of your planet-  _ what now? _


	2. The Greatest Oddity

Kylo Ren was gone for a long time. You perused through your books when the grief became too much to deal with. You started with the Jedi books- stories of Master Yoda, of Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi, of the  _ chosen one _ , Anakin, who fell in love with a beautiful Queen-turned-Senator and went Dark. The tale of Luke Skywalker, his lost sister Leia Organa, their rogue allies Han Solo and Chewbacca. How Luke defeated the Emperor with the help of the Sith Lord Darth Vader, using love and Light. It was a story you loved, bequeathed to you from you mother, written with her own theatrical flare, notes in the margin explaining just how she felt about everything. You and your mother had very different outlooks on life- Darth Vader had been wise and powerful, capable and cunning. He’d seen the folly of the Jedi and rightfully defeated them all, then led the Empire with his master for years… Before succumbing to a meaningless bond, weakness overriding him, and he’d died. To you, though, Anakin had been too passionate. He’d let himself be manipulated by Palpatine, and turned against the admittedly crooked Jedi, ruining everything he loved. He’d been a tyrant, but he’d seen the Light in his son- a Light so bright and pure he couldn’t help but see Luke’s reason. Luke was a determined, bright soul, coming from nothing and fighting anyway, unwavering in his quest to free the galaxy from Palpatine.

Sometimes, you wondered where he’d gone after that. The galaxy needed him more than ever now, the First Order consuming the once-free planets. You turned the page past Luke’s story and saw the first thing  _ you _ had added to your mother’s book- a crude and silly drawing of your mother, a red lightsaber in hand, a crudely drawn illustration of a headless Sith on the ground. You flipped through the pages- slowly, the artwork improved. Visions, dreams of all the things your mother accomplished.

They’d stopped when you were thirteen. The book ended there, many empty pages to go. The last thing you’d drawn was your mother looking out at an asteroid belt, lightsaber ignited beside her. It was from behind, and she looked serene and foreboding. Your own creative style gave it all a colorful but macabre vibe, the proportions a little off. For your mother, it made her look wicked and lively, chaotic and strong.

Kylo Ren opens the door then, walking in. It’s been hours, and it’s nighttime now. He glances down at the drawing in your lap, then walks past you to kick his boots off. He tosses the lightsaber on the chaise lounge, then unclips his cape and tosses it into a hamper. He grabs his helmet and it hisses; slowly, he removes it. You’re expecting something horrifying- a pasty, scarred old man, much like Vader, or a wrinkled, demonic grimace, like Palpatine. Instead, you’re greeted by the youthful face of a handsome man only perhaps two or three years older than you. He’s got a scar on one cheek that begins above his eye and disappears beneath his collar, but it does nothing to change his appearance. His  _ normality _ behind the mask is perhaps the greatest oddity to behold. He glances at you with a small smirk, though it isn’t wicked or Dark. He doesn’t hold the same air as you imagine the Emperor or Vader did.

_ Supreme Leader _ . This man conquered countless planets. He slaughtered the remnants of your base. He assassinated your Queen. He straightens. “Are you hungry? I know I am,” he walks towards the kitchen, and you watch him.  _ Spare the girl, kill the rest. You will all follow, or you will all die. Speaking of, kill the Queen _ .

_ Are you hungry? I know I am _ .

Before you know what you’re doing, you’ve grabbed your mother’s lightsaber and ignited it. He pauses, then glances over his shoulder, staring calmly at the red plasma. Plasma? You’re not sure what to call it, really. You know it’s from the kyber crystal within, but-

“Put that thing away,” he says, walking forward. “I know you don’t know how to use it.”

“You don’t know anything about-” you start.

“I know everything about you,” he insists. “You’re a sad little orphan living in an igloo on a strange planet in the middle of nowhere,” he began, rifling through the fridge.

“I’m not an orphan,” you argue. “My mother is alive.”

He laughs as if you’ve made a slightly funny joke. “Your mother died more than ten years ago.”

“No,” you say fiercely, gripping her lightsaber. He glanced at it, then your eyes, before returning to his preparation.

“Are you going to eat?” he asks. “I need to know how much to make,”

Your stomach is growling. You haven’t eaten in nearly twenty four hours. “Fine,” you snap reluctantly.

“You killed your father when you were seven-”

“I did not,” you argue, voice shrill with fury.

He looks you in the eyes. “There was an ice storm, and you locked him out of your ship.” You stand ever straighter. You don’t need to argue with him. Amused, his expression still mild and nonchalant, he turns back to the food. “You were alone after that, your mother having left shortly after you were born. You spent your life daydreaming about her, drawing about her in the books she left you.” You glance down at the fallen book on the floor. “When your dreams stopped, you briefly apprenticed under a blacksmith, then joined the military when you heard about the First Order. You were a wonderful soldier, and the General- the Crown Prince, son of the Queen- wanted to promote you through the ranks, but you refused to leave your base, wanting to be on the ground where you’d be useful in a battle. You’d have been the commanding officer of it, at least, if the man above you wasn’t a potential political rival to the Queen. You’re the best shot in this solar system, one of the best pilots. You’ve never trained with a sword or staff of any sort; your master at the smithy forbade it until further into your training, but you left before you could learn. If you try to strike me with that, I will remove your arm, destroy those books, and skin your dearest friends alive.”

You stared at him for a long time, motionless. You weren’t entirely sure you believed him, but his words echoed in your head:  _ Spare the girl, kill the rest. You will all follow, or you will all die. Speaking of, kill the Queen _ . You deactivate the lightsaber and set it on the chaise lounge, then lift up the book and set it beside the others. When you look up at Kylo once more, he’s still cooking, looking entirely unbothered. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t answer you. “Sit at the table.”

You close your eyes and clench your jaw, settling your quickly bubbling anger and force yourself to sit at the table. He brings two plates of food and sits across from you, handing you one. You stare at him as he chews his first bite. “You must know I won’t stop looking for an opportunity to kill you and take back my planet. If you can see all that in my mind, you can surely see I haven’t given up- not for good.”

“I know I’m no chef, but you should eat,” he says. You gingerly take a bite, then look pointedly at him for a response. He gives you amused eyes, though as usual his expressions barely change his face. His eyes are emotive, and his lips twitch occasionally. That’s about the extent so far. “I know you want me dead. I know you won’t risk something you can’t win, though, and I know I won’t present you with anything you ever  _ could _ consider a likely win.”

“What do you want from me?”

He glances over at the lightsabers as he takes another bite. “There are a lot of planets higher up on our radar than a tiny little monarchy with nothing to trade and nothing to offer. I set my sights on it for one reason-”

“My mother’s lightsaber,” you finish. He looks down with a faint smile. “Why?”

“What do you know about your mother?”

“Not much,” you admit, looking down. “Her father was a Sith. She was Dark. She met my father, left me with him. My dreams are all I have- snippets. And…” You glance at the books. “Little notes from her. The books are all she left me.”

He glances at them, then at you. “Her father was Darth Sidious,” he says.

“I know. My father said.”

“Do you know who Darth Sidious is?”

You frown. “A Sith Lord?”

He can’t help but keep the amused look off his face, a brow quirked, tongue on his teeth, eyes downcast. “Sheev Palpatine.”

You inhale sharply. “No.”

He meets yours eyes. “Use the Force. You already know it’s true.” He says. Your brow furrows. You don’t know  _ how _ to use the Force. “But you do,” he insists, leaning forward slightly. You lean back in response. “You call it  _ determination _ \- the Light, anyway.”

You look down with a frown. All those times you fought and won- training with allies, or today, fighting with the Order. It wasn’t skill. “Oh,” you say.

“The Force is a skill,” he argues.

“Not one they were using,” you counter. The first foe with the same skill was Kylo himself, and he’d beaten you easily. You’d grovelled at his feet- literally. You close your eyes as shame settles over you like a shadow, rubbing salt in your wounds.  _ You are weak _ .

“But you don’t have to stay that way,” he says softly, solemnly. “I can teach you the ways of the Force. I can make you strong. You’re already familiar with both sides- strong with each, though unskilled. You could be great. People will grovel at  _ your _ feet.”

“I was tested for midi-chlorians,” you counter. “My father was  _ aching _ for a reason to throw me out- I barely have any.”

He stares at you for a long time. “The Force is strong with you. Midi-chlorians aren’t the only factor. Look at me,” he bids, sitting back. “I have less than Luke Skywalker, and still I defeated him. I had less than Snoke, and still I killed him.”

You stare at him, mouth falling open before clenching your jaw. “You killed Luke Skywalker?”

“No,” he admits softly. “But I beat him.”

“I just want to go home,” you admit softly, looking down at your half-eaten food. You didn’t want to be Dark. You didn’t want people to grovel at your feet.

“You can’t go home,” Kylo says.  _ Because you destroyed my home. _

“And what will you have me do,  _ teacher _ ? Topple cities, slaughter governments, conquer planets?” You ask coldly. You won’t ruin others as he’s ruined you- you refuse.

“No,” he says. “I have other uses for you- depending on how strong you become, how capable.”

That isn’t exactly an answer. You close your eyes. “What are my other options?”

He’s silent for a moment. “You don’t have any other options.”

Annoyed, you open your eyes to scowl at him. That’s not how negotiations work. “There are always other options.”

“I’m the Supreme Leader. I don’t have to negotiate.”

“I could run,” you argue. “Find the Resistance.”

He laughs amusedly. He knows you’re bluffing; he knows you wouldn’t. “You could certainly try.”

You hate his stupid handsome face, his stupid hearty laugh. He acts like a man, but he’s a  _ monster _ . His face is the facade, his mask the reality. He meets your eyes, pondering your thoughts. “Get out of my-”

“You don’t hate me,” he says, not caring that you were speaking. “You wish you did, and the fact that you don’t just makes you angrier. You’re not capable of hatred, at least not right now. Just anger, and sadness, and fear.”

His words are like a knife, and you tense, closing your eyes, inhaling sharply. “I’m more than capable of hatred.”

“You don’t hate your father,” he says casually. “You’re afraid of him. You’re angry at him.  _ Still _ . I doubt you ever won’t be. But you don’t hate him- you  _ love _ him. How pathetic.”

You shudder in your seat, staring down at your food. Your brow furrows and in an instant, you’ve sent it flying across the table. It smacks him in the face, and he closes his eyes just in time to protect them. You can feel his fury radiate off of him for a long moment, but he doesn’t move. You instantly regret it, swallowing. Slowly, as if it might soften his blow when he finally explodes, you pick up a napkin to wipe him clean. He grabs your wrist in an iron grip and you gasp at the pain- he tightens his hold and you cry out. Within seconds he’s cleaned himself, somehow-  _ the Force _ \- and he stands, yanking you with him. You’re gasping in pain, trying not to cry out, standing in front of him. His eyes are fire as he scowls at you, teeth bared, and for several long moments this animal in front of you is much more terrifying than Vader or Palpatine could ever be. He throws you backwards and you stumble onto the chaise lounge, nearly igniting your mother’s lightsaber directly into your thigh. You grab it and deactivate it as he pummels the wall three, four, five, six, seven times. When he stops, his glove is torn and his knuckles are bleeding. The wall to the bathroom has a nineteen inch whole in it.  _ That could have been me _ . Neither of you move for a long while.

Eventually, you’re brave enough to stand, and you pull out a chair. “Let me attend to your hand,” you breathe. He glances at you, as calm as he was before, though a sense of foreboding hangs in the air around him. He sits in the chair and you walk towards him, reaching out for his hand.

“Kneel,” he says, not looking at you. You swallow, then reluctantly obey. Are you afraid of him? You know he won’t hurt you,  _ somehow _ \- the Force. You’re not sure if fear’s the right word. He grabs your chin in his bloodied, purple hand. The strong iron smell is nearly strong enough to make you gag. “Look at me,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and warily you do. He leans forward. “I’m your master. You will not fight, you will not argue, you will not revolt. If you do…” He yanks your face up so your neck and your back are uncomfortably stretched. His eyes are deadly serious. “You will pay. I won’t kill you- not unless you don’t prove useful to me. But I will make you pay.”

He releases you and sits back in his chair, and you relax, jaw clenched. He calmly watches as you peel the leather off of his large hand. His knuckles and the skin around them are skinned, his fingers bruised, the joints of them bleeding as well. You go to the bathroom and find a med pack, then return to kneel in front of him. He doesn’t wince once. When you’ve cleaned and wrapped it up, he looks tired and tense. “I’m sorry,” you breathe.

He glances at you, then stands, making you lean back to avoid being struck by his pelvis. He stares down at you, then grabs you by the elbow and drags you into his bedroom. You’re barely able to get to your feet before he pushes you forward into the middle of his room. You look down at your arm- the bruise from where he grabbed you early was painful, and his dragging you didn’t help. He closes the door behind him. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Don’t annoy me.”

You spin in time to see him begin to shrug his clothes off, then look down at the floor. “Where am I meant to sleep, exactly?”

“The floor. The bed. I don’t particularly care.” He’s naked now, rifling through his dresser. You stare at his empty bed, red faced. It’s big, at least. You glance at the floor. Tile. Cold. You frown at the bed, brow furrowing. He’s finished changing, wearing tight thermal pants and nothing else. He glances at the military uniform you still wear, then wordlessly hands you another pair of thermal pants and a loose black shirt. You head to the door, but he grabs you- mercifully, by the other arm. “Don’t open the door,”

“Why not?”

He scowls at you, and you look down, taking a step back. He releases you and walks to the bed, laying down. Setting his clothes on the dresser, you struggle to remove your uniform, stripping down to your sweat-drenched tank top and thermal pants of your own. He watches you, though seemingly out of boredom rather than any interest. You’d be tempted to rip his eyes out otherwise, of course. You turn from him to remove the tank top. “On second thought,” he says, his disgust apparent in his voice. “You’d better shower if you plan on sleeping in my bed.”

You tense, trying to calm your anger. How  _ dare _ he? Not everyone had the luxury of watching most of the battle from their cozy ship. He hisses through his teeth.

“You’d better watch yourself,” he says in a threatening tone.

“Are you going to punish me for  _ thinking _ ?” You ask as calmly as you’re able.

“No,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. “But you’d better keep it to thoughts. You’d better be careful what you say and do.”

You grab the clean clothes and stalk out of the bedroom, not caring to cover your brazier but still very embarrassed by the glance he pays it.

This is going to be one hell of a life.


	3. Balance

The bathroom, save for the large hole in the wall, is luxurious and chic, and you spend ages in the shower, feeling the hot water on you. On your icy planet, water was almost never this warm. You stop only when the intense emotion from earlier in the day threatens to lurch up, then hurriedly dress in Kylo’s clothing and scurry into his bedroom.

His eyes are closed and his breath is even, though you know him to be awake. You sit awkwardly on the bed only for him to ignore you, so you curl up on your side, facing away from him. The bed is plush and soft, but supportive and firm beneath the top layer. You bury yourself in the blanket he hasn’t bothered to touch and revel in the warmth.

“Will I ever get to see them again?” You breathe.

He takes so long to answer that you begin to think he’s ignoring you. “Yes. Stop talking.”

Despite the comfort, it takes you ages to fall asleep, and you wake often.

You wake up just in time to see Kylo slink off the bottom edge of the bed. He looks over at you for a moment before walking to his dresser to change again. He tosses you another pair of clothing. “I’ll have to send you for some clothes,” he mutters, turning. You sit up and yawn.

“Are you going to watch me?” You demand.

“Yes. I don’t trust you.”

You scowl at him before standing and facing away from him to change, wondering why the hell he’d let you shower, then. He doesn’t bother to answer.

You follow him into the main area and he motions to the kitchen. “Your turn to cook,” he says, sitting on the chaise lounge to study all of the lightsabers. Most of them are red, collected from places you’d seen your mother bury them after killing some Sith. There are two blue ones, a purple one, and a green one.

“Do you know who these belong to?” Kylo asks.

“The purple one was Mace Windu’s, and the green one was Yoda’s. My mother paid a lot of money to get her hands on them,” you say as you search the refrigerator for something resembling breakfast. “One of the blue ones belonged to a friend she had, one who was related to some Jedi from the days of the Republic. The other blue one was left to her by her father- she was meant to corrupt it, but she never did. The others are Sith she killed- I don’t know anything about any of them. Well- and her own. It was her sisters’ lightsaber that she corrupted after her sister disappeared.”

Kylo silently took the information in, and you were unsure of it how much he knew. What the Force showed was an illusory concept to you- he knew where you were, could see into your mind. You saw visions of your mother. He could know everything in the entire universe and it wouldn’t surprise you.

His lips quirk. “The Force shows different things to different people,” he says. “You’re primarily a user of the Light- hope and determination and focus. I use primarily the Dark- anger and desire and sheer strength.”

You sit with that for a long time. “You can use both simultaneously?”

He thinks for a moment. “Define simultaneously. In one fight? Absolutely. In one moment? No- darker emotions channel the Dark side, and brighter emotions the Light.”

“Okay,”

“The Jedi are a Light side based religion, and the Sith are a Dark side based religion, but neither they nor their ideals are synonymous with the Light or the Dark.”

“But they had monopolies on each for a long time, didn’t they?”

“Yes.” He picks up your mother’s lightsaber and examines it. “You said your mother had a sister. What do you know about her?”

“Not much,” you say. “They were raised together, and trained together, and my aunt left when she met a boy a few years before my mother did the same thing. As far as I know, they never saw each other again.”

“No, they didn’t,” Kylo tells you. “Your aunt married that man, and a few years after you were born, they had a daughter.”

You look over at him. The revelation that you have more family, a cousin, should mean more to you than it does, but the only thing you feel is guilty for not feeling much of anything. “Okay.”

“She’s with the Resistance,” he says. “And she must die.”

You blink. “Why?”

“We’re a Force dyad, thanks to Snoke. With her gone, the sheer amount of power I’d have access to-” he cuts himself off to straighten. “Not to mention the fact that the Resistance must be wiped out.”

“What of me, then? You say you’ll train me to be strong and of use, but to what end?”

He looks over at you with mild disinterest. “I told you. I won’t know for certain until you’ve trained. Maybe you’ll be little more than a TIE fighter. Maybe you’ll live and work alongside me. It depends on who you are, how you fight, who you become.”

You look at the lightsaber still in his hands. “I see,”

“One more thing,” he says in a quiet, soft voice. “If you’re strong and capable. There’s one other thing that could happen.” You listen to him, standing, waiting. He meets your eye again. “We could force the bond between Rey and I to snap- but it would recoil, manifest. If you’re as strong as I hope you are, we could manipulate it to reform between you and I. And, as allies, we could both manage the same intense power, working in tandem with one another. We could create a Force bond and use it how it is meant to be used.”

“To what end?” You ask again. He looks over at you, tired.

“Whatever end I need. My current goals are to unite the galaxy under the First Order, to deal with the dyad situation, and to defeat Palpatine.”

You frown. “Palpatine is dead,” you say.

“He has been. Things- change.”

You gawk, but Kylo doesn’t reply. He tosses you the lightsaber and you catch it effortlessly. “Come.”

Wordlessly, you follow him through the ship towards something clearly intended as a training area, equipped with leather foes and wooden sticks and staffs and almost anything one could think to need. “Grab one of the faux weapons, whatever you’d like to learn.”

You look between them all, several distinct variations, before your eyes settle upon a shorter variation. It flashes white in front of you, momentarily baring a curved handle, and you gasp. Kylo looks over and enters your mind, but the vision is gone as soon as it begins. You pick up the wooden lightsaber and look up again- a regular, longer lightsabers flickers in and out your vision several times, the blade still as pure white as snow. You pick up the wooden stick left in its wake, then look over at Kylo.

“They’ve never happened like that before,” you say. He doesn’t respond for a long moment, but eventually he walks over and changes the way you grip both of them.

“Hold them like this,” he says. “You’ll have more range and more control over them. Or, in a pinch, you can toss them up and-”

You toss them up and catch them backwards, then look up at him for approval. He nods. “Good. Practice that often- you really don’t want to catch them too high up, or drop them and risk losing a leg.” You toss them and catch them correctly again.

“Good,” he says again, then grabs a faux saber that resembles a cross, then leads you towards the center of the room.

He hits you often, and firmly, but always informs you where you fell short. In a few hours that pass by quickly, you’ve begun to manage to block all of his advances.

“The Force is strong with you,” he says again. “But you’re clumsy with fighting, and you don’t trust your instincts. You’ll need to work on that.”

“Okay,” you say, flushed. He begins to teach you how to hit, grabbing faux sabers identical to the ones you have and using one of the leather foes as a target. It’s easier to master, easier to feel confident with. After another few hours, though, Kylo instructs you to replace your weapons.

“Are we done already?” You ask, exhausted but exhilarated. It’s not a physical exhaustion- you were a blacksmith for years, hammering away at steel and beskar. It’s hard to remember, to keep track of, everything he taught you.

“We’re stopping for lunch,” he says, leading you back towards his quarters. “Then we’ll use training sabers and you’ll learn to balance offense and defense.

“Do you know what those lightsabers were?” You ask as he walks towards the kitchen and you sit at the table.

“I didn’t see one of them,” he says. “But I would assume they’re Ahsoka Tano’s lightsabers. Fitting, I think, for you to be drawn to hers, specifically.

“Why is that?”

“She was Vader’s apprentice, a former Jedi. Very strong, very smart.” He studies you for a moment. “A promising sign, I hope.”

He sets lunch down and you both eat in silence, taking about an hour’s break. You’re done long before then, but he takes his time.

Then, you return to the training area and he opens the drawers beneath the faux sabers. “These are training sabers used by the Jedi,” he says, spitting the last word with distaste. “But they work. They’re set to the lowest setting; if you were to grab the blade, you’d suffer no more than minor burns and some bruising.” He tosses you two lightsabers identical to the ones in your vision save for the color of the blades- igniting them, the smaller one is green, the longer one blue. They both have curved hilts. You ignite them. “I wouldn’t recommend letting me hit you this time.”

He fishes out a red cross-shaped one from a drawer and tosses it round experimentally. “I’ll teach you more about lightsabers soon. I want you to be able to practice on your own, though, so you need to know defense basics.”

“Okay.”

“You should never go for prolonged periods of time practicing alone, though. It will only worsen your mistakes. You need a partner to understand where you’re going wrong.”

“Alright,”

He leads you to the middle of the room then, lightsabers at the ready. You strike first, taking advantage of your dual blades to defend and fight at the same time. You doubt you’d be able to do so against someone so much more experienced if you didn’t. It’s a catch twenty-two, though; two lightsabers means double the focus, and as he says, you’re clumsy with the Force, doubting it at the most inopportune times. He hits you four times, a number that feels both very high and very low, all things considered. He corrects your missteps and shows you more complex ways to move, reinforcing the movements he taught you earlier.

It’s early evening by the time you finish, and he hasn’t hit you in hours. You manage to land two blows in total, one at his stomach and one on his arm.

You walk back once more, eat in silence again. He showers and leaves you alone with your thoughts.

You had had  _ fun _ today. You’d felt strong and capable and determined.

Your friends had been slaughtered yesterday. It felt so far away and unreal. Life as you’d known it- your entire existence!- felt like an old dream you’d had once. Now, you were numb and cold.

He returns and reclines on the chaise lounge, studying you, and you know he’s considering your emotional state right now. “Do you want peace?”

It’s a question that strikes you, and you blink. “Yes.”

“You know that there are people who threaten peace.”

“Of course.”

“Would you rather there be chaos, or would you rather those people die?”

You inhale. “They don’t  _ have _ to-”

“Answer the question. Pretend they do.”

You look away.  _ Every soldier is another person who has seen death and destruction _ . You think of other little girls and boys signing their lives away to fight and kill and die. Are the lives of people who oppose peace worth that? “I don’t know,” you whisper honestly.

Your thoughts seem to satisfy him, though. “In reality, of course, it’s always much more complicated than that. Every single situation is different, and everyone is going to be wrong sometimes. It’s important to recognize one thing- something that’s true in all aspects of everything, living, dead, or otherwise.”

You look at him, the solemn philosophical gleam in his dark eyes. “And that is?”

“There is no universal good or evil. There are shades of grey- some dark, some light. But there are no absolutes, no clear cut answers. Only balance and the yearning to be balanced. That is the only true peace.”

You digest his words for a long time, never responding. He peruses through your books after a moment, frowning at certain points, and after his outlook you do sincerely wonder his opinion of your mother’s and your own. He says nothing, though, silently consuming the information. “We’ll go over all of this, in good time,” he says.

“Alright.”

He looks at you. “I won’t be available tomorrow. I want you to practice what you learned today, and the day after that we’ll see how you do alone.”

“Okay.”

You both retire silently, but it’s excruciating to lay there. You feel empty and alone and ashamed. You look over at Kylo, who glances over at you after a moment. You turn towards him and he appraises you silently.

You’re not alone, but you feel it. You wiggle closer to him and he doesn’t object, so you tentatively set an arm on his shoulder. He strokes your arm with a large, warm hand.

You fall asleep easier tonight.


	4. Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit chapter

You wake before Kylo does and crawl carefully out of bed to use the restroom and make breakfast. You’re halfway done when he comes out of the room and eyes you, thinking.

“It was my turn,” he says.

“Apologies,” you reply.

He sits at the table, looking half asleep. “What are you doing today?”

“Training what we practiced yesterday.”

“Good. You can come back here to eat or go to the cafeteria and eat with the rest of the ship. Before I leave, I’ll introduce you to a few people who can be of assistance if you ever have need while I’m gone.”

“Okay.”

You eat together and then get dressed. He leads you around the ship, introducing you to Captain Phasma, General Pryde, General Hux, then drops you at the training area. You work hard and skip lunch.

Alone, it’s much more difficult to avoid wondering about just what you’re doing here, what you’re going to do. You’re intrigued by his knowledge of your mother, the Force, the Sith and the Jedi and their histories. You’re also horrified by the knowledge of what he’s done, what he’s willing to do, and what he thinks is necessary in the name of peace. Your neighbor’s face as he chortles keeps popping into your head. Human pain is naught but a bargaining tool for Ren, a form of manipulation.

But you could gain so much from him. You could grow and learn and decide what  _ you _ think is best. And, besides- what other option do you have right now? You decide to lay low and continue on, looking for another option, and analyze the situation then. Because as of yet, this is the only option.

You’ve battered and burned the foe so much the entire room smells of burned leather and your body has begun to ache from the effort. Not to mention the fact that you’re quite hungry.

_ Once more _ , you think, readying yourself to attack.

“Still busy, I see,” says Kylo’s mechanical voice from behind you. You jump and swivel to see him in his black, silver, and red mask just in time to see him take it off and toss it haphazardly to the side. He draws his lightsaber- his real one- and readies himself. “There’s a few songsteel blades in the drawers. Arm yourself- they will deflect my lightsaber. I won’t hurt you.”

You swallow and put your training sabers away, pulling out two similar metal ones and confirming with Kylo that they’re correct. You grip them tightly and get into position.

Very close to the beginning of the fight, he would have sliced you right in half had he not stopped his swing. “Calm down,” he says. “Relax. I won’t hurt you, and you need to focus.”

You nod and shudder, trying to shake out the anxiety. His lightsaber frightens you. “Couldn’t I use the fear instead? Isn’t that the Dark side?”

“You could, only you wouldn’t be able to. You’re not nearly afraid enough of me for that.”

Something about him saying that provides you with a bit more confidence. “Alright.”

It does take you a moment to get back into the swing of things- he nearly hits you twice more, but you hit him twice as well. The sound of the saber on the metal is strange and loud, and the feeling of deflecting it with metal is so much different than when your training sabers collided. There’s a few corrections to be made, mostly about your stance and your movement, but you’re more open to the Force today. You’d had to be to practice while thinking.

You stop for dinner then relax in the living room once more.

“Now- lightsabers,” he says. “The ones you prefer are a standard lightsaber- the longer one- and a shoto lightsaber, the shorter one. My lightsaber is a crossguard lightsaber-” He draws and ignites it into the room, causing that now familiar sound and the surge of power as it roared to life. “Referring to the two side ports.”

“Okay,”

“There are several other variations…”

He teaches you about all sorts of lightsabers, including several famous ones, for hours, and you listen intently.

Everyday is much the same. He trains with you for a while, or lets you train alone, before teaching you about things like lightsabers or the history of the Jedi or the Sith, sometimes focusing in on specific people, like Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker or Yoda or Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Your dreams and visions grow varied and persistent. You dream of Ahsoka most commonly, watch her expelled from the Jedi and prove her innocence, watch her fight with Vader.

And then, one day, you watch her bury them.

“I know where they are,” you say breathlessly to Kylo. He looks over at you from his spot on the chaise lounge.

“What?”

“Her lightsabers,” you say. “She buried them! We have to get them.”

“Someone else found them a long time ago, Enevre. So, unless you’ve seen whichever grubby hands they’ve passed into most recently, you  _ don’t _ know where they are.”

You deflate, then lower yourself onto the chaise lounge beside him. He watches you as you’re overwhelmed with more emotion than you’ve felt in a long time- since you started your training. “We might find them one day,” he says. “But until then, you’ll need to make your own lightsabers.”

You grab your mother’s from its place inside the cage, which has long been tucked beneath the coffee table. “I’ve got one,” you say fiercely, and he nods.

“Speaking of,” he says. “I’d say you’re ready to practice with real lightsabers.” He picks up one of the sabers he himself had added to the pile today. He ignites it, revealing a sleek and strangely shaped black saber with a white glow around it. “You have no idea how difficult it was to find this.”

“Wow,” you say, and take it from him. It’s a stunning weapon. “Wow.”

“It’s called the Darksaber. There’s only one in the galaxy. It started off with the Jedi, but it’s been just about anywhere you can have expected a rare lightsaber to be.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, turning it round in your hand. It looks more like a sword than a lightsaber.

“You’ll wield it when we practice tomorrow. By now, I trust you’re able not to accidentally remove any limbs.”

You stroke the cold metal silently. You’re hyperaware, momentarily, about the fact that you’re armed, and yet still you plan nothing. You don’t know how to feel about that.

You don’t want to acknowledge the fact that you sit there, content and even happy to be trained by the man who brought about the downfall of your planet, but now that you sit here, armed and skilled enough at least to run, you can’t avoid that discomfort. For the first time in a long time, flashbacks to the day the First Order landed on your planet strike through your vision.

His TIE silencer, his sheer ability with the Force. The slaughter of your friends, of the royal family. The eviction and indoctrination of your people. The ransacking of your city. You close your eyes, furrowing your brow, and lean into the back of the chaise lounge, deactivating the Darksaber.

And for what? For him to keep you here and teach you how to wield a lightsaber? He could have just stolen you away. Then, his only known crime would have been against you and you could forgive him without feeling guilty.

Because you have forgiven him. And it’s like spitting in the face of your people.

“Perhaps,” he says softly, breaking the prolonged silence. “You should visit them tomorrow rather than train.”

“I can’t,” you breathe as tears threaten to fall from behind your eyelids. The fuzzy warmth of sadness fills your face. “You don’t know what our culture is like- to return to them after all this, I just… I couldn’t. I can’t. I won’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he says and he sounds genuine.

“For what?” You laugh out. He surely is not sorry for all he’s done, just because  _ you _ are sad. When you open your eyes to look at him, several tears fall.

“For not simply stealing you away,” he says.

Two more tears one from each eye. You stare at his handsome, familiar, utterly human face. More tears, and your jaw quivers. His eyes are kind and gentle, dark like molasses. His nose is long and hooked, giving his oval face a strong and sharp angle. His lips are soft and pouty. His skin is light and dotted with freckles and birthmarks. He is the epitome of beauty, of strength.

You lean forward and he inhales slowly, watching you. Your eyes focus on his lips and you’ve almost pressed then against your own by the time you realize what you’re doing. He kisses you gently, but deeply, lips working against yours, tongue teasing you.

It’s a long and passionate kiss, and you’re horizontal on the chaise lounge before long, his weight pressing you down into the soft fabric, one arm beneath your head, the other solidly on your waist. Your own arms are clutching at his shoulders, his arms, his back, as if clawing for dear life. You make small, animalistic noises against him. Your brain falters and gives way to the sensual urges within you and you lay there, tears drying, as you drink from the man who ruined you, who created you.

“Take me,” you gasp. He pulls back to stare down at your fact for a long time, one large, warm, calloused hand finding your cheek.

“Patience,” he says, and kisses over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. You shiver in anticipation beneath him and he pulls open your shirt, sliding it over your shoulders. He kisses and suckles every single part of you as he undresses you, leaving you to moan and wiggle beneath him, tantalized by his teasing.

“Please, Kylo,” you beg as his lips find your nipples, one hand on your cheek once more, the other massaging your rear.

“Patience,” he tsks once more, dancing from breast to breast with his lavishings.

But eventually, it’s too much for you to take. You push him up and undress him hurriedly, then straddle his waist and kiss him deeply, hungrily. Amused, he responds to you, and he holds your hips in his strong hands to keep you from impaling yourself on him right there on the couch.

_ Eventually _ , he stands, keeping your lips on his and your legs locked around him, and walks to the bedroom. He tosses you down on the bed gently and drags you closer by the leg. In his eyes are a hungry, predatory gleam, and you shudder.

“Fucking take me, please,” you whimper. “Don’t make me beg.”

He holds you by the hips and steadies himself at your soaked entrance before thrusting into you, and you groan as you stretch around him. He moves at a fast, steady pace, his hands attending to every single one of your erogenous zones, his lips occasionally finding yours to drink sloppily from you once more.

Growing restless from laying still, you pull him onto the bed with your legs and roll on top of him, and he helps you roll and wind your hips as you ride his length. You continue like this for a long time, feeling yourself building to that ever fleeting climax when he tumbles onto the top once more and turns you around, leaning over you and slamming into you even deeper than before. His thrusts are harsher now, and he groans and growls into your ear. He holds your hot body against his sweat-laden chest and you feel primal and raw as he takes you like this, all but breeding you like a bitch. Your arms give out and you collapse, and still he holds your hips, slamming home even as your face lay tiredly against the bed.

You cum first, moaning and whining into the pillow as your body twitches and bucks beneath him, but he holds you still. Your cunt is on fire and the sex feels wilder now that you’ve finished, and it’s almost too much to take when he explodes within you and pumps you full of his seed. He drives a few final, erratic thrusts home before collapsing beside you on the bed, and you curl into him, head on his chest, almost as if it were any other night.


End file.
